Broken Hallelujah
by LaylaBinx
Summary: Crowley has only ever seen Aziraphale's true form twice: the first time was in the Garden of Eden and the second was on the day Hastur came to kill them. Blood, violence, and eventually h/c sap
1. In which the other shoe drops

**Alright, listen: I'm not proud of this. I'm not proud of the fact that my muse is a sadist and took something as soft and wholesome as these two idiots and thought "they're cute, make 'em bloody." Yet here we are. I've been wondering what might happen if anyone in Heaven or Hell were to find out about the switch and, well, this happened. It'll get better in the end, I swear, but for the time being there's going to be blood and violence. **

**The good thing is you guys are here to join me for it! Hope you all enjoy!**

**A/N: I own nothing**

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The other shoe drops with all the grace and finesse of the Hindenburg.

It's a cold, drizzly Thursday afternoon and the local weather reports are calling for an uptick in the rain starting around 6pm. The sky outside is the kind of slate grey that promises an all-night soaker and this was the time of year when even a few inches of rain could lead to the streets and sidewalks flooding with very little effort. There was already a pretty impressive puddle next to the front door and if it got even a little deeper it would happily trickle past the threshold.

As such, a certain angel was busy shuffling the books around in his shop, plucking a few dusty, tattered tomes from the floor and moving them to the higher ground of shelves and tabletops. He's been caught off guard by the rain before and it's usually his books that suffer the consequences. Dry cleaning a wet jacket is one thing but trying to salvage a waterlogged papyrus manuscript is a different story altogether.

There had been exactly one customer earlier in the day, a tiny Russian woman who didn't look a day younger than 153 and she had obviously stumbled into the bookshop thinking it was something else. Aziraphale knows the basics of Russian and was able to communicate with her well enough to explain that no, my dear lady, this is not a consignment shop and many, if not all, of these books are not for sale. The woman just flashed a big, toothless grin and patted him on the arm as she passed by him, playfully chiding him on his accent.

Aziraphale didn't have the heart to ask her to leave, especially with it being so cold and dreary outside, so he sat behind the counter and watched as she tottered her way around the shop, admiring the books and muttering quietly to herself every once in a while when she came across one that she found particularly interesting. She stopped at one point, her attention directed to him, and asked, quite politely, if he sold any kind of cookbook that she might be able to purchase for her grandniece who was expecting her first child and couldn't cook to save her own life, poor thing.

In spite of having absolutely nothing of the sort, Aziraphale smiled, dug around in one of the empty shelves behind the register and produced a brand new, never before published cookbook chocked full of impossibly easy-to-follow recipes and seven full chapters devoted to cooking and making baby food, introductory foods for toddlers and small children, as well as a handy chart for growth stages and nutritional needs.

It was exactly the kind of book the woman was looking for and no one needed to know it hadn't existed until exactly forty-six seconds ago. She offered another toothless grin, thanked him profusely, and scribbled down the recipe for Russian tea on a napkin sitting next to the cash register. Then she waved, tucked her new book under her arm, and hobbled back outside with an umbrella she suddenly located in her bag that hadn't been there before.

(Aziraphale doesn't count the umbrella or the book as miracles, not really. Just a happy coincidence, that's all).

The rest of the afternoon had passed by without customer or incident and the angel didn't feel bad at flipping the sign on the door at half-past four even though this was one of the few days he would have stayed open until six had the weather cooperated. Still, he had other plans that evening and closing a little earlier would give him time to make it across town before the rain picked up.

Crowley wasn't expecting him until around 6:30 so it wouldn't do to arrive too early but he could at least leave early enough to stop by a pick up a bottle of their favorite red on the way over.

The demon was in charge of dinner tonight, he'd been tinkering around with some recipes he'd found online and finally felt comfortable enough to attempt one of them. He hasn't tried to cook anything since the Great Toast Incident of 2004 but online food blogs now offer easy-to-follow videos to accompany the recipe itself and he felt confident enough in his ability to watch a video and replicate it that he was willing to attempt cooking dinner for he and Aziraphale.

It was sweet, really, how nervous he became when he proposed the angel come over for a romantic evening and the promise to cook him a meal he would never forget. Aziraphale would have been happy to join him for a bowl of cereal and a glass of tap water but Crowley was trying to impress him without outright saying so and so the angel smiled and accepted and pretended to not see the wash of triumph across the demon's features when he said yes.

This thing between them was still relatively new even though it shouldn't have been. They've known each other since the literal dawn of time but the actual ins and outs of courtship and dating were still uncharted territory for both of them. They didn't know what to call it at first and as such there had been a bit of experimentation with what the actual definition of their relationship was.

Aziraphale had once, shyly yet enthusiastically, proclaimed that they were 'going steady' when a woman spotted them on a park bench together and Crowley had very calmly and professionally slithered off the bench onto the pavement below like all his bones had suddenly vacated his body. He stayed down there for several minutes thereafter, much to his concerned angel's distress, because a) no one said 'going steady' anymore, angel, for Hell's sake, b) Aziraphale was impossibly proud and excited to claim Crowley as his date and it did all sorts of weird things to the space in his chest where his heart should be and finally, c) he couldn't feel his legs because his blood pressure bottomed out the exact second Aziraphale made it clear they were dating.

Whatever it was, dating/courting/going steady, they had been doing it for over a year now and they were both still getting used to the idea of being together without having to hide it. It didn't matter how many times they had to remind themselves that Heaven and Hell didn't care anymore, they were essentially disavowed and left to their own devices. There were still a lot of stolen glances and brief touches and just outright _pining_ that could easily be remedied if it wasn't so deeply ingrained as a habit after six thousand years.

But they were both happy to take it slow, going through all the motions and milestones of dating and enjoying the new freedoms they could experience without their respective superiors breathing down their necks anymore. There were no more assignments, no more missions, it was just the two of them and the world that hadn't been destroyed. And it was _nice_.

As much as it may have initially pained Aziraphale to admit, it was nice to not have anything to do for once. He no longer had to worry about reports or paperwork, stale and stoic meetings with Gabriel and the other angels. Heaven was leaving him alone and, in an odd way, he was glad for it. Now he could focus on books and his shop and, best of all, he could focus on Crowley. He'd lived in denial for centuries, never daring to dream, hope, or even imagine a life with the demon and now, without fear of interference, he could finally pursue that.

He smiles and hums quietly to himself as he rearranges the books in his shop, scooping a few off the floor and relocating them to a more secure location. He's excited for the evening, excited to see Crowley, but also a tad worried that he might be facing water damage by the end of the night. He thinks he might need to pop upstairs and bring down the basket of ratty towels and the mop he kept for just this occasion and set them up near the front door, just in case. At least that way he could create a barrier of towels against the door to keep some of the water out should the sidewalks flood.

He turns and makes his way toward the back door of the shop, setting down a few books as he walks, and his fingers are less than an inch away from the doorknob when there's a sudden, sharp sucking sound like a piece of plastic getting caught in a vacuum cleaner. The noise is quick, there one second and then gone the next, and it's like the very fabric of reality had been ripped apart just long enough for something to step through.

Aziraphale turns back to see what the source of the noise was and freezes.

There's a man standing in his shop or at least something that bears a passing resemblance of a man. The thing in his shop resembles a human the same way a scarecrow out in a cornfield might resemble a human; the shape is there as well as the general physical features, but it's all wrong and spits in the face of the real thing. The thing in his shop looks like this; questionably human, with it's awkward posture and slouched shoulders and clothes that haven't been washed in at least nineteen years. He has pale hair that hangs against his scalp in thick, dirty clumps, and black eyes that seem to absorb every ounce of light in the room. He grins and it's an ugly expression, all malice and sharp, jagged teeth.

"You must be the angel," the man drawls, the words coming out like they were covered in barbed wire and hydrochloric acid. "So nice to finally meet you."

Aziraphale feels a prickle of fear dance across his skin. A demon; that would explain the not-quite-rightness of this particular individual. He's dealt with other demons only briefly, trying to maintain at least a good three hundred mile distance between him and the nearest one at any given time. Crowley doesn't count, of course, because Crowley wouldn't try to gleefully murder him with hellfire at the slightest opportunity.

"I, uh, I don't believe we've met," Aziraphale stammers, trying to buy himself a bit of time. He knows who this is, he remembers seeing him in Hell when he switched places with Crowley, but no one else was supposed to know about that.

Hastur, if he remembers correctly, one of the Dukes of Hell.

"Is there-," Aziraphale begins, hating the way his voice trembles just slightly as he speaks. He clears his throat and tries again. "Is there something I can help you with?" His eyes dart around the room as he speaks, desperate to find something he could use to protect himself. What he wouldn't give for his flaming sword right about now…

"Oh yes," Hastur tells him with a small nod and a smirk that hangs from the gallows. "I've been doing some research recently on a very particular topic, one that's so narrow I figured that maybe I should drop by a bookshop and get some expert advice."

He crosses through the bookshop like a shark gliding through the water. One dirty hand comes up to swipe an entire shelf of ancient, priceless books onto the floor. Aziraphale winces in spite of himself; he'd be much more irritated about the callous treatment of the books if he wasn't terrified. The demon in his shop is eyeing him the same way a starving animal eyes its next meal and right now his gaze is fixed on Aziraphale.

"You see," he says, knocking another stack of books onto the floor. "I'm very curious to see what these books might recommend as the proper punishment for a demon or, in this case," he says, indicating Aziraphale with one filthy hand. "An angel, who has tricked Hell and made a mockery of it. I would think the punishment would be quite severe given those circumstances."

Aziraphale opens his mouth to say something but no words come out. It's not because he doesn't have anything to say but rather because the Hastur's filthy hand is now clamped around his throat and squeezing it closed.

"Wouldn't you agree?" Hastur asks, smirking as Aziraphale struggles against him. He gasps on instinct, choking and struggling against the hand at his throat, but it's like trying to slip out of a steel vise. He belatedly realizes his feet are no longer touching the ground and his shoes knock against the wall behind him uselessly.

"That was a good trick you pulled," Hastur praises, pulling Aziraphale in close enough to smell the rancid odor rolling off his skin. This close the frog on his head looks less like an actual animal and more like a lump of decayed and rotting flesh haphazardly molded into something vaguely frog-shaped. A streak of something, oily and black, seeps from Hastur's hairline and it smells like decomposing flesh on a hot, balmy day.

"Fooled a lot of us, me included," he continues, his knuckles grinding into Aziraphale's throat. "You even had Beelz goin' which is no small accomplishment."

He laughs, loud and abrasive like broken glass in a garbage disposal, and suddenly Aziraphale is airborne. His back crashes into one of the pillars in the center of the shop, the thick beams splitting up the middle and showering him with plaster. He crumples at the base dazed and coughing, and for a few seconds all Aziraphale can do is gasp and wheeze and try to remember what it felt like to draw a deep breath. His reprieve is short-lived, however, and suddenly Hastur is looming over him again, grinning down at him with sadistic glee.

"So who's idea was it?" the demon demands, cackling in a way that indicates he's more than a little unhinged at this point. He grabs a handful of Aziraphale's jacket and hauls him back to his feet before sinking one closed fist into the angel's midsection. Aziraphale chokes and crumples again, earning a solid kick to the ribs on the way down.

"Was it yours?" Hastur asks, crouching down and snaking his dirty fingers through the angel's hair to yank his head back. "I mean, I'm really curious now. Were you the mastermind behind it all or was it that bastard Crowley?"

He doesn't wait for an answer and slams the angel's head into the pillar, plaster digging into his scalp and showering them both in a rain of white dust. Another heavy boot catches him in the ribs again and there's a dull crunch as bones splinter and break on contact.

"My money's on Crowley. Damn snake was always too smooth and treacherous. Can't trust him as far as you can throw him, s'what I always say." Hastur looks down again, a razor-blade grin cutting his features. "Let's see if the same holds for you." He grabs Aziraphale again and lifts him over his head effortlessly, tossing him across the room like a ragdoll.

This time Aziraphale collides with a bookshelf, the wood splintering and dumping the contents of its shelves on top of the angel who has landed in a graceless heap on the floor. Aziraphale groans and coughs, dragging one arm across his torso to protect his broken ribs. He coughs and spits out a mouthful of blood, the splatter glossy and bright across the hardwood. His body may be more durable than a human's but it can still take a beating, one which Hastur seemed all too happy to give.

"Well would you look at that," Hastur laughs, skipping back over toward him with the dead-eyed grin of a serial killer. "I've always to see an angel fly," he says, twisting his hands in the angel's jacket and lifting him all the way up above his head. He holds him there for a second or so and then body slams him back onto the floor. The hardwood splits and a large, thick splinter impales itself through the fleshy part of Aziraphale's side.

"Looks like you didn't fly that far this time," Hastur dropping to one knee next to the injured angel and gripping him by the throat again. He squeezes, hard, and the angel grips his wrist weakly, desperately trying to break free from his grip. "Let's try again, shall we?"

Again Aziraphale is airborne, crashing into a glass display case closest to the front register. The case explodes, showering him with glass, and he can feel it slicing into his hands and cutting through the fabric of his jacket. Blood, hot and wet, begins to coat his skin beneath his clothes and seep through the fabric. Hastur is going to kill him before this is all over with and Aziraphale can only think of one thing that might buy him a few seconds of time to get away.

The demon in question is stalking back toward him and it takes a lot of effort but Aziraphale manages to lift himself just enough to wave one arm, the motion swiping away the rug in the middle of the shop. It knocks Hastur's feet out from under him and he falls heavily onto the holy symbols and sigils etched into the hardwood. It's not activated but that doesn't matter, holy symbols are still holy.

The air suddenly fills with the smell of seared, rotting flesh and Hastur screams in a mixture of rage and pain as the symbols he landed on burn through his clothing and brand the skin beneath. He leaps up, frantically patting at charred flesh and fabric, and levels the battered angel with a murderous gaze.

"Heaven won't save you now," he growls, stalking across the room and twisting his hands into Aziraphale's coat again. "You know, I've always wondered what it'd feel like to kill an angel," he says, although it's unclear if he's speaking to himself or Aziraphale. "Maybe I'll get a commendation for it."

He smirks, white teeth standing out starkly against blood-red gums. "Only one way to find out, right?"

Aziraphale doesn't have time to react or think or even brace himself. He's thrown again but this time his head clips the pointed corner of the front desk next to the register and all he sees are stars. Not the bright, beautiful stars that Crowley helped create; no, these were stars that sear the retinas and leave white-out blotches in your vision. They were the stars that crackle in the very particles of the air itself the split second before a nuclear weapon detonates. They were the stars that are just a little too close to a black hole, the stars that give way to singularity events, the stars that go supernova.

He hears something crack and he thinks it might be the sound of his head striking the hardwood but after that it doesn't matter.

After that everything goes dark.

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**Sorry for the cliffhanger but I promise to update soon!**

**Thanks for reading guys! :D **


	2. Of Food Blogs and Separation Anxiety

**Hello all! Hope you're having a great day! I'm so excited you guys are enjoying this story so far, ya'll are the best! This chapter is a little short but I'll have the next chapter up by Friday, never fear! **

**Also apologies if you are the owner or proprietor of a food blog; the long winded rant is all Crowley's.**

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Every once in a while humans will do something truly, remarkably evil with no influence from Heaven or Hell whatsoever and the rest of the world is left to grapple with the fallout. The level of ingenuity and creativity is impressive, sure, but the real kicker, the one that leaves even the upper echelons of Hell taken aback, is just how eager the rest of the population is to follow along with it. It makes their job infinitely easier because humans are just so willing to adhere to trends that are, under no uncertain circumstances, profoundly unholy.

Take food blogs for instance.

What started as a great way to catalogue personal recipes on a personal webpage has gradually morphed into an ungodly abomination of anecdotes and long winded stories. Now it takes twenty minutes of scrolling through dull, rambling stories of how the blogger remembers learning this recipe from their mother and she passed it down as a surefire way to satisfy a husband which was great because now their marriage is failing and they're pretty sure their husband is having an affair with Beverly, their perky little neighbor down the street, and their children are hitting that age where they don't listen anymore and everyone has become super evasive and dodgy and they just really need a way to bring the whole family back together again so anyway here's this step-by-step recipe for making the perfect Sunday evening pot roast.

It was brilliant in an odd, marketing-strategy kind of way because it forced everyone with wifi who wanted to learn how to make Grandmother Trudy's Award-Winning Lasagna to read about and take on other people's problems while scrolling through pages upon pages of narrative in an effort to get to the recipe itself. Crowley is both baffled and mystified by how organically such an idea developed and how effective it was on the internet as a whole. He's also mildly disgusted and wishes he'd come up with the idea himself.

He's come up with a few truly devious ideas over the past few decades, the rise in technology lending itself to all kinds of different platforms uniquely suited for spreading evil. Well, general annoyance as it were; even at his "worst" Crowley has never dabbled in anything unforgivably evil. His talents are better suited in crafting small-scale pitfalls that lead to no small amount of irritation and annoyance; he finds it's much easier to let humans spread evil themselves when they're foaming-at-the-mouth furious because some idiot (read: Crowley) knocked out all the wireless coverage in greater London for more than six hours and every cell phone in the city was reduced to little more than a glorified paperweight.

In Crowley's opinion, small-scale was always better in the long run. Sure, grand sweeping gestures of evil and violence usually got you some pretty spiffy recognition Below but the smaller things, the ones that grew and festered like a grangenous wound, those were always, ultimately, more effective.

Credit cards had been one of his pet projects, instilling the idea that with a simple slip of plastic a person could buy anything they wanted with the vaguely acknowledged promise that they would pay it back later. The multitudes of credit cards produced and the ease with which they could be acquired soon led to hundreds of thousands of people living beyond their means and, subsequently, getting saddled with crippling debt. And the great part was that Crowley didn't have to do anything more than come up with the idea; humans did the rest themselves.

He'd done the same thing with timeshares. Promise plucky young couples the opportunity for a luxury holiday with only a small monthly payment attached and they flocked to it like suicidal moths to a bonfire. When the idea was first pitched in the 1960s, people swarmed to it in droves, signing contracts they were undoubtedly not reading and then getting shafted by page upon page of small print. Want to take a holiday in the middle of the summer? Too bad, your cabin won't be available until November. Want to switch your timeshare ownership to a new property? Sorry, love, you really should have paid more attention to the location restrictions listed on page 14, section 5, subsection G. Want out of your timeshare because it's a scam and you're starting to realize that $19,000 per year is extraordinarily high for a cabin you're never able to use when you want? Sucks to suck, mate, you're locked in for at least twenty-five more years. It was beautiful, really, and once again Crowley had shockingly little to do with it; he pitched the plan and let humans do the rest.

Granted, not all of his schemes had been as successful. When companies like Ikea began selling assemble-at-home furniture packages he had the bright idea to tinker with the production process and ensure that all of the earliest kits included one less nut, bolt, or screw necessary to complete assembly. He also took great pains to make all the instructions as vague and cryptic as possible with step-by-step picture instructions that looked exactly nothing like the piece of furniture the beleaguered buyer was attempting to put together.

It worked for a while and he nearly chalked it up to another rousing, if small-scale, success but then some idiot/genius had the bright idea to start selling hardware at 24-hour stores and it effectively thwarted his plan. Same went with making sure toys didn't include batteries on Christmas morning; did him little good to enforce that if every 24-hour store in the country started selling batteries hand over fist in the days leading up to Christmas.

So yeah, he's begrudgingly impressed with food blogs. They employ just the right level of small-scale irritation that he's been working on perfecting since 1994 and as annoying as they are, he finds himself oddly fascinated with them.

It does not stop him from becoming one of their victims, though.

Any kind of admiration he might have originally had has dissolved into unmitigated frustration and he's seriously considering tracking down Marjorie from Sussex and having a few choice words with her regarding her recipe for "No Fail Roast Chicken." First of all, he's failed twice (he burned the chicken the first time and the second time it was so raw in the middle it could have practically walked out of the oven on its own) and second the bright yellow sunflowers she used as the background for her page made his eyes hurt.

He reads through the recipe again, tries to figure out where he's going wrong, and eventually abandons Marjorie for Daphne's "Save-My-Marriage-Sunday-Evening-Pot-Roast" and makes grocery list on a piece of scratch paper. He understands pot roast, it's one of mankind's greatest inventions: take a chunk of meat, add a couple potatoes, dump it in a pot and leave it in the oven for a few hours until you wander by and wonder why the oven is on and then suddenly remember you put something in there.

It was foolproof.

Also it's an impressive meal which is really what he's going for. Aziraphale is coming over later that evening and Crowley really wants to impress him and he figures a pot roast is a safe bet. Not that he really needed to impress him, Aziraphale was just as smitten as he was, but the whole construct of dating was still exciting and new and cooking a meal for your significant other was apparently very romantic and Crowley was hell bent on doing just that.

True, it would be a lot easier and less time consuming to simply meet up at a restaurant or miracle something into existence but it's the principle of the matter, dammit. He wants to cook something for Aziraphale and pretend not to be absurdly proud of himself when the angel praises his cooking and fawns over the meal for a few hours. He even bought candles for the occasion (well candle; it's a single pillar candle he found in a shop downtown that claims to smell like fresh apple pie but in reality just smells like wax and stale cinnamon gum but he bought it because Aziraphale loves cinnamon and, you know, romance).

He shoves the scribbled grocery list into his pocket and heads for the door, snagging a black scarf on the way out. It's the first true cold front of the season, drizzly rain and low-hanging clouds adding an extra chill to the air. The cold has always been a problem for him and in the dead of winter, when it's nothing but grey clouds and cold, grey days, he feels his inner serpent twist and writhe against the lower temperatures. It's better now, what with central heating and warmer clothes, but he still doesn't like it. It makes him irritable and tired and slower than usual which is a problem because he's used to living life as fast as possible.

Still, he's willing to brave the cold weather outside and make the trip to the grocery store because he's going to make this pot roast, dammit, and he needs supplies. Aziraphale was coming over and he'd face a thousand blizzards if meant keeping the angel happy.

He's decided that dating is an odd yet enjoyable practice. He likes the pomp and circumstance of it, the strange little rituals that seem so intrinsic to modern courtship. He's been around long enough to see the courtly acts of love change with the times, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. He's glad to see that politically arranged marriages have more or less died out in modern times yet he doesn't quite know if he's onboard with the detachment of modern romance. Gone are the days of love ballads and love letters, replaced instead with text messages and emojis. He doesn't really understand emojis even though he claims to but he knows an eggplant is supposed to be suggestive in some way.

Dating Aziraphale is different, though. He's spent centuries working with Aziraphale, countering him here and thwarting him there (all in good fun, really, they never did anything intentionally to one another) so he knows everything about the angel, all his strengths and weaknesses, yet he finds actually being in a functional relationship with him to be fundamentally different. There's a new kind of thrill there, a new kind of exhilaration. It's not different as in "okay, now what?" but different as in "we could kiss each other _right now_ and I don't know how to handle that."

He's been in love with him, pining for him, for so long and now that they can actually be together his brain frequently goes blank and tries to revert back to a default setting he's quietly referred to as his 'private hell of yearning.' Physical touch is often a big trigger for that and the one that usually causes him to short circuit like a faulty switchboard. Like, intrinsically he knows that signs of affection and cute pet names are just what couples do but it's still really hard for him to get used to that. Aziraphale held his hand a few weeks ago and he had to go home and lie down for about four hours because he was so overwhelmed by emotion that he nearly blacked out.

It's not unpleasant though, not in the least, and the more time they spend with each other the more comfortable both of them become. Aziraphale stays over more nights than not and has even started leaving a few of his books at the demon's flat which in and of itself acts as a marriage proposal. He also seems perfectly content to share a bed with a demon, a fact Crowley still has trouble wrapping his mind around sometimes. The angel seems 100% committed to the relationship, no questions, no doubts, and honestly that's good enough for Crowley.

The store is mostly empty when he arrives, a product of the weather and also the fact that it's 3:30 in the afternoon. The after work crowd hasn't descended yet which means he has plenty of time to peruse the store and gather everything he needs for the night. It would have been easy enough to simply miracle the groceries he needed to the flat but he kind of enjoys engaging in some of the mundanities of daily human life. Things like going to the grocery store or picking up clothes from the dry cleaners had a certain charm to it; he couldn't describe it as anything other than a distinctly human thing. His superiors Below never understood that but, then again, there were a lot of things they never understood about humanity. Many of them were still trying to figure out Rubix cubes and getting more confused and frustrated by the day.

He wanders the store for close to an hour, plucking a few items he needs and a few he doesn't from the shelves and dropping them in his basket. He spends close to twenty minutes in the hair care aisle comparing different kinds of hair gel. Honestly he's just killing time at this point; he'd told Aziraphale 6:30 and the roast would only take about two hours so he doesn't exactly have to rush home just yet.

He's busy examining all the different kinds of toothpaste, vaguely wondering if he should switch to a new brand, when he feels a sharp, sudden pain jab him in the ribs. He gasps and drops his basket to the floor, clutching the afflicted area with one hand while the other shoots out to form a white-knuckle grip against the shelf. It takes several seconds for the pain to recede and for a long moment all Crowley can do is stay doubled over, arm wrapped across his stomach to cover a wound that wasn't there.

He winces and looks down at his shirt hesitantly, fully expecting to see it soaked in blood. The pain, sharp and sudden as it was, briefly convinces him he's been stabbed although he'd not sure with what. There's no one around him, nothing sticking out from the aisles he could have impaled himself on, and yet that's what he's anticipating. However, his shirt is deceptively clean, no blood, no tears, and the skin beneath it is equally unbroken. He frowns in confusion and starts to straighten again when another jolt of pain hits him, this one worse and more powerful than the last.

It's like someone is digging a white-hot poker into his ribs (he should know, he's been punished with that before) but this feels different, this feels worse. There's a hollowness to it, a gaping emptiness that pulls and tugs insistently. The pain swells like an enormous wave yet it never breaks or crashes, it just continues to rise. His lungs are on fire, his internal organs feel liquified, and the guttural groan that ripples out of him is surprising in its rawness.

There's suddenly a hand on his shoulder and a concerned store clerk is crouching next to him, asking frantically if he's alright. Her voice sounds muffled and far away though, the words wrapped in cotton and floating above his head like clouds. He wants to answer her but nothing comes out, just a groan. He thinks he hears someone on the phone requesting an ambulance but he's not listening because he's suddenly all too aware of what this pain means. He's only ever experienced pain like this a handful of times and it always means the same thing.

Something is wrong, he doesn't know what, but something is dreadfully wrong.

He's always had something of a sixth sense when it comes to Aziraphale. It makes sense in a way, they're both supernatural beings more or less cut from the same cloth, so there's always this invisible link between them. He can sense Aziraphale even if he's half a country away, the angel's warm, celestial presence taking up a permanent place in Crowley's subconscious. But this also means he knows when the angel is in danger as well.

That part of his sixth sense, the part that informs him that his angel has landed himself elbow-deep in trouble, is suffocating when it gets activated. When his "Aziraphale-has-done-something-stupid" senses start tingling, it's less a vague sense of impending dread and more like a sledgehammer to the face. It's overwhelming, all consuming, and refuses to dissipate until he has ensured the angel is safe.

He'd felt it when Aziraphale was in line to face the guillotine and again when he was about to have a bomb dropped on his head during the Blitz. Usually it's dull, a creeping sensation that starts in the pit of his stomach and works its way up the back of his throat like a scream. It's intense and impossible to ignore but it's never painful, just profoundly uncomfortable. This time it's different, this time it feels like someone has slipped a knife between his ribs and sank it in hilt deep. This time it feels like he's dying.

He's staggering to his feet then, basket forgotten, much to the dismay of the worried store clerk and onlookers. They're all begging him to sit down, that help is on the way, but he doesn't listen. All he does is croak out, "I have to go" before spinning on his heel and sprinting out the door to his car.

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**Thanks again for reading guys! More to come soon! :D**


	3. Angels and Demons

**Hello everyone! Hope you're doing well! I've seen some truly incredible fan art with Aziraphale depicted as a terrifying Biblical angel and it's always so interesting to see other fan's interpretations! I feel like my interpretation kind of looks like an Erika from Night Vale. Anyway, hope you all enjoy it! :D**

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He has no idea how many laws he breaks during his mad dash across town but it doesn't matter. Any officer within the tri-county area knew better than to attempt to pull over the speeding Bentley; they're not sure how they knew, only that if they had attempted to do so it would have been the last thing they ever did. Some deep-seated, primal part of their brain took one look at the car, knew, intrinsically, that if they attempted to intervene the driver would rip their spine out and beat them to death with it, and thought, _hmm, it's probably an emergency, better let him go._ As such, there were no less than six police officers and dozens of witnesses who watched a black vintage Bentley careening down the packed Soho streets and did absolutely nothing to stop it.

Crowley doesn't even wait for the car to come to a complete stop before he lurches out of it and sprints across the street. He still has vivid, terrible memories of doing something similar the year before and arriving to see the bookshop engulfed in flames and thinking for a few awful moments that the angel was still in there. His senses had flared then, much like the flames swallowing the bookshop, but it was little more than dull ache compared to the sharp agony he feels now.

Something else digs at him now, something he hadn't felt until he got closer. It's oppressive and crushing, a distinctive heaviness like a lump of iron settling in his chest, and he knows exactly what it means the second he yanks the door open.

"Hastur!" he snarls, the name ripping out of his throat like a battle cry.

The Duke glances up, his black eyes widening only slightly at Crowley's appearance. He's standing in the middle of the bookshop, surrounded by books and manuscripts and everything that was distinctly Aziraphale, and it was all just _wrong_. It was like seeing an abandoned daycare in the middle of a war zone and being burdened with the knowledge that something horrific happened here and that innocent people had suffered. He defiles everything good and pure about the shop and it makes Crowley's blood run cold.

"Crowley," Hastur greets him with an ugly, twisted smile. "What a lovely surprise! I haven't seen you since the Holy Water bath."

His smile gets uglier as he speaks. "But then that wasn't you, was it? No, that was another one of your tricks wasn't it you filthy, slimy snake?" He grins and laughs, the sound high pitched and bouncing around the room. "Oh yes, I know all about your little trick, Crowley, the switcheroo you pulled, and I must admit it was a good one, your little friend here really had us goin' for a while!"

For the first time Crowley realizes that Hastur is standing over something crumpled and motionless on the floor. At first he thinks/hopes it's just a pile of clothing that had been dropped on the ground, a laundry basket toppled by a careless customer, but then he recognizes the jacket, the blood-stained blond hair, and something horrible and dark twists in his stomach.

"Get away from him," he growls in a voice that is most assuredly not his own. The voice that comes out is demonic in every sense of the word, deep, reverberating, and dripping with malice. It's the voice of a thousand nightmares and a thousand visions of Hell.

Even Hastur is briefly surprised by it, the ugly smile on his face faltering slightly. "Did you really think we wouldn't figure it out?" he asks, maintaining his threatening stance over Aziraphale. The angel groans quietly but otherwise remains motionless. "Did you really think you were that clever? That you could fool the very sovereigns of Hell itself?"

"I said move away," Crowley snarls again, advancing into the shop with deadly intent. He's not entirely sure what he's going to do but all that matters is getting Hastur away from Aziraphale and getting the angel to safety. "I will not tell you again."

"Or what?" Hastur asks, stupid and stubborn as the day is long. To his credit though, he does step away from Aziraphale but it's not far enough for Crowley's liking. A thousand miles wouldn't be enough for Crowley's liking.

"Do you plan on taking me on yourself?" There's a deep, rumbling chuckle that accompanies the question, the sound of fissures and faultlines splitting. "You and I both know that's not a fight you're going to win."

It's true, as much as he hates to admit it. Hastur is a Duke and is therefore much more powerful than Crowley is; if he decided to face off against him it was going to be a quick, bloody affair that had about a 1% chance of ending in his favor. Hell, the only reason he was able to take down Ligur was thanks to a conveniently placed bucket of Holy Water and even then it had been a big risk. Facing off against Hastur, unarmed and without a plan, was suicide but he had to get him away from Aziraphale and give the angel a chance to escape.

Crowley is faster than Hastur, though, that's his only advantage at the moment, and he doesn't plan to waste it. He has one, maybe two seconds, to come up with a plan and yeah, it's a really stupid plan but it's the only thing he has going for him and he has to commit.

His next step into the shop disappears in a blur and he reappears a split second later across the room, standing behind Hastur. The Duke is already turning, having expected something like this, but he's moving too slow, the motion lagging and drawn out like a movie scene filmed in slow motion. Before Hastur can turn completely, Crowley plants a foot in his side and kicks him across the room.

Time resumes and Hastur sails across the room, an awkward flurry of arms and legs as he tumbles across the floor and rolls into a bookshelf. It's not enough time, not nearly enough, but Crowley can't stop himself from dropping to his knees next to the crumpled angel and shaking his desperately.

"Come on, angel, wake up!" he demands, pleads, begs because Aziraphale is so still and the knot in Crowley's stomach clenches even more when the angel doesn't respond to his calls.

Something grabs him by the hair and wrenches his head back, slamming it against the edge of the front desk. He collapses to the floor, stunned and struggling to see past the starbursts filling his vision. Hastur is on top of him then, flipping him onto his back and pinning him to the floor.

The first blow catches Crowley in the jaw, the impact powerful enough to rattle his teeth. Another one finds its mark against his temple and the world explodes with stars again. The blows seem to come from everywhere all at once, striking his head, his chest, his neck; he's not sure what's a fist and what's a boot but both are equally effective. He needs a new plan because he won't be able to keep Aziraphale safe if Hastur beats him to death first.

He manages to suck in a short breath, concentrate through the pain, and force his body to transform into something long and twisting and not at all human. He hasn't done this in a long time and knows he can't maintain this form for longer than a few minutes but it will have to do for now. He's stronger like this, faster, more powerful, and it might give him the advantage he needs to end this fight. The world turns infrared, an explosion of red, green, and blue, and a throaty hiss ripples out of him.

Hastur stands and sneers, black eyes narrowing at the huge, tightly coiled snake that's appeared in Crowley's place. "When I catch you," he warns, crouching slightly like he's waiting for the right moment to pounce. "I'm going to rip all those shiny black scales off one by one and turn it into a belt."

Crowley coils tighter and strikes, powerful jaws clamping onto one of Hastur's arms and snapping the bones like dry kindling. Sharp, needle-like teeth sink deeply into the arm and hook in, shredding flesh and muscle alike. The Duke wails in pain and grabs at the serpentine body but Crowley is still faster, dislodging his teeth from Hastur's arm and striking at his other hand, taking off three of his fingers in one quick snap. Another furious howl echoes through the shop and the Duke grabs the snake with both hands and flings it across the room.

Crowley lands with a heavy thump but recoils quickly, ready to strike again. However, Hastur is the faster one this time, grabbing a large shard of glass from one of the shattered display cases and lunging forward to slash several deep gouges into the glossy black scales as the snake strikes. They're not fatal wounds but they're deep and painful and more than enough to make Crowley lose his concentration and shift back.

He tumbles to the ground with a gasp and looks down to see the left leg of his jeans shredded and soaked in blood, skin and denim alike split open from the razor-edge of the glass shard. The damage beneath is even worse and blood, bright and glossy, gushes from the wounds heavily.

Hastur is over him again, mauled hands grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking his head back again. He drags him across the shop violently, a long, gruesome trail of blood smearing across the hardwood floors behind them. Crowley is then lifted bodily and slammed into a bookshelf, his head bouncing against the splintered wood. The shard of glass comes up to his throat then, Hastur wielding it like a dagger. It doesn't pierce the skin, not yet.

"You're going to pay for this Crowley," Hastur snarls, trembling all over with rage and bloodlust. His mangled hand is bleeding heavily, his blood streaking the glass blade in long drips of crimson, but his grip is firm. "You're going to pay long and slow and I'm going to enjoy every second of it."

Crowley grits his teeth and struggles against the Duke's grip but it's useless and he knows it. His own wounds are bleeding freely and the injuries he sustained from the beating he took earlier are making him weak. He can't hope for a quick death, he knows that's not an option, but he'll take whatever punishment he receives if it means Aziraphale stays safe.

His eyes fall on the angel, relieved to see he's conscious and moving even if it's not much. Aziraphale is propped up on one elbow, one side of his face streaked with blood, but he's looking right at him, blue eyes wide with fear. Not fear for himself but fear for Crowley.

"An...gel…" he croaks, trying to let him know _it's okay, everything is under control, I've got this, don't worry,_ but that's the only word his brain is capable of formulating at the moment.

Hastur glances over his shoulder, eyes landing on Aziraphale, and then realization dawns on him, slow and drawn out and awful. He grins and looks back at Crowley. "Oh _no_," he says with another gleeful laugh. "You didn't, Crowley. You stupid, miserable snake, don't tell me you fell in love with an angel!"

Hastur looks positively delighted at the idea and shakes Crowley like a ragdoll as he laughs and laughs and laughs. "Oh, this is _wonderful_," he says with all the malice of a killing field. "I always knew you couldn't be trusted but this, this is stupid even for you."

He chuckles and digs the shard of glass into Crowley's throat a bit more, just deep enough to draw blood. "I'm going to enjoy this, Crowley," he promises, black eyes wild and manic. "I'm going to enjoy breaking you down bit by bit and then setting fire to the miserable remains. I want to watch you suffer, Crowley, for years and years and years and then I want to watch you suffer some more."

"Please…" a weak, shuddering voice begs from across the room. Aziraphale has pushed himself up a little higher and it looks like it's taking everything he has to stay conscious. "Please let him go...please, I beg you…."

"Oh, you beg me? You _beg_ me?!" Hastur cackles, withdrawing the glass shard from Crowley's throat and pointing it toward Aziraphale. "Oh, I'm going to have fun with you too, angel." The words drips out of his mouth, dark and venomous. "You know, I've never seen an angel's wings before...I wonder what they'll look like once I've ripped every feather off and shove them down your throat?"

At this Crowley struggles against him again, desperate to break free and get Hastur out of the bookshop, out of the city, _anywhere_ away from Aziraphale. Because he can handle a lot, torture, torment, trauma, it doesn't matter, but he can't handle the idea of Hastur hurting Aziraphale. That was the one and only thing he could not allow and he would die before he let that happen.

Hastur chuckles and sinks a fist into his stomach, grinning when Crowley doubles over and gasps.

"Crowley…!" Aziraphale cries out, his voice broken and distraught. He's reaching out to him like he can somehow close the gap between them with sheer force of will. "Stop! Please!"

The Duke rolls his head onto his shoulder and fixes Aziraphale with a black glare. "No," he says with an oily smile. "No, I don't I will." He turns his attention back to Crowley and sneers. "But you know what I will do, Crowley? I'll let you take a breather for a few minutes, a few seconds reprieve before the real fun begins. And in the meantime, I'm going to skin your angel alive and let you watch."

"No!" Crowley growls, struggling to right himself and gain some kind of leverage. He needs to get Aziraphale out of here.

"Stop!" the angel begs again, the word coming out as a sob. "Please, don't hurt him!"

"Too late for that," Hastur says, shaking his head almost apologetically. "Far, far too late for that. And you know, I just had a brilliant idea. I'm not going to force you to watch as I dismember your angel, Crowley, no, I'm going to force you to listen. I'm going to pluck out those ugly snake eyes of yours, Crowley, and I'm going to make you listen and wonder what I'm doing because I can guarantee whatever you imagine will be a dream compared to what I have planned for your pretty little angel over there."

He raises the shard of glass up to Crowley's left eye and offers one last sadistic grin. "I've been wanting to do this for a long time-"

"Stop!" a voice commands, loud and thunderous and resounding. It rumbles its way through the bookshop, shaking books off shelves and rattling the windows. It's an old voice, reminiscent of ancient volcanoes and earth-shattering tectonics. It blasts through the room and demands to be heard.

All at once the bookshop is bathed in a white-fire light as breathtaking and blinding as a supernova. A pillar of flame stands in the middle and every atom and particle of matter seems to be drawn to it.

For a second or so neither Hastur nor Crowley move, both frozen in stunned terror. There's a new energy in the room, powerful and old and deadly as raw electricity. It tingles and crackles over everything and the room fills with the smell of burning ozone. Hastur's mangled fingers go boneless and he drops Crowley unceremoniously to the floor, the other demon landing in a haphazard heap on top of a pile of books. Pain and blood loss is making him dizzy but he barely notices it because he's too busy staring at the pillar of flame in the middle of the room in silent horror.

He's only ever seen Aziraphale's true form once. It was on the first day of Creation and Crowley had just slithered his way into the Garden, curious, confused, and questioning. He had seen something near the upper walls of the Garden, something vaguely human-shaped but fundamentally not human. There were too many wings, too many eyes, too many features to take in all at once. It had also been too bright, the glow around it searing at his eyes and making him duck away into the shadows of the foliage. When the light faded and he re-emerged from the underbrush he found Aziraphale as he knew him, human-shaped with human features and a human voice.

The Angel in the bookshop now is no longer the Aziraphale he knew. This Angel is powerful and violent, a hurricane trapped in a glass bottle that's already cracked. This Angel is celestial, vengeful, the living embodiment of the Old Testament. This is not an angel who gives away a flaming sword, this is an Angel who wields a flaming sword.

The Angel steps forward, the light shifting with it as it moves. The flames around it's shoulders seem to refract and reflect all at once, casting light and bending it at the same time. There's the shimmer of half a dozen wings and the flutter of thousands of metal-edged feathers that shift and glide like blades of war sliding together to create a phalanx. It maintains a human form in only the vaguest sense of the word and its movements are primordial. Dozens of eyes lock onto the still-frozen form of Hastur and it continues to advance.

"Who else knows?" the Angel asks, its voice ricocheting around the room like a stray bullet.

"W-What…?" Hastur stammers, stumbling back against the toppled bookshelves.

"The switch," the Angel elaborates, stepping forward again. It's like watching the molten core of the earth swell and billow. "Who else knows?"

"I…"

"Speak!" The word shatters the windows and both demons slam their hands over their ears at the explosion of sound. A few car alarms wail and blare in the streets outside.

"N-No one," Hastur promises, back pressed against the splintered shelves. "No one, I swear. I-I'm the only one who figured it out."

"Good," the Angel says, lifting its hand like a salute.

"No! Wait! Please!" the Duke of Hell begs but his words are cut off as he disappears in a blinding flash of light.

Crowley winces and covers his eyes, the brightness leaving negative images behind his eyelids. It happens in less than a second, like a lightning bolt striking in the dead center of the shop. When Crowley finally dares to open them again Hastur is gone and he has the undeniable feeling that he won't ever see him again. He blinks and winces, eyes burning and tearing as the bookshop continues to be bathed in blinding light.

"Aziraphale," he says, grimacing at how rough and reedy his voice sounds in his own ears. He's not sure if it's from pain or the fact that he's ever so slightly terrified but his words come out pitched and feeble. He coughs, clears his throat, and tries again. "Angel," he clarifies, addressing the thing that is most assuredly _not_ Aziraphale directly.

The Angel turns its attention to him then and Crowley realizes, rather belatedly, that this may have been a mistake. The Renaissance painters and cute little prayer books passed out in church have it all wrong. Angels are not the beautiful and ethereal creatures depicted on church ceilings and stained glass panels, hovering around humanity with gentle, benign expressions. They're not the sweet, chubby cherubims that appear on Valentine's cards and symbolize child-like innocence and love. It's nice to envision them that way and Crowley understand why humans do it because the reality of what angels are and what they truly look like, is, quite frankly, horrifying.

He makes eye contact with way too many eyes and a being that has only been described accurately a handful of times in the Bible. Speaking to the Angel is like speaking to an atomic mushroom cloud. The being before him is as beautiful as it is terrifying and he can't look away.

"Crowley," the Angel says, it's voice rattling through the air like it's challenging the fabric of reality itself.

Suddenly the deep wounds in his leg are on fire. Not literally but the pain is so intense and unexpected he's briefly convinced that boiling acid has been dumped in the open wounds. The skin burns and sears like red-hot coals have been jammed into the deep fissures and it's a cruel, breathtaking pain he's never known before. He cries out wretchedly, curling in on himself as the wounds mend and heal, muscle fibers stitching themselves back together slowly and blood vessels repairing themselves and rerouting through torn flesh. It's agony, pure and simple, and it leaves him screaming until his throat goes raw.

And then it's over and he collapses, shaking and breathless against the hardwood floor. He lays there for several long seconds, trembling and sobbing and trying not to pass out. The wounds in his leg are healed but the pain lingers, bright and hot, and he gropes at the newly mended flesh like it's still gaping and torn.

The bookshop is suddenly filled with a roaring hiss like all the air in the world was being sucked out all at once. A miniature windstorm erupts within the bookshop, ancient pages ripping and fluttering around the room like they're trapped in a micro hurricane. The Angel is the epicenter, the omphalos, the eye of the storm and for a brief second it seems that everything in the universe swirls around it. Reality is tearing, morphing, rearranging itself around him and forcing itself back to normalcy.

And then, all at once, the Angel is gone and in its place stands Aziraphale.

For a worldless moment they just stare at one another, neither moving as tattered pages of books flutter down around them like archaic confetti. Sound returns slowly, traffic and rain and the wail of car alarms, and it fills the bookshop to the brim.

"Crowley," Aziraphale says again, in his own voice this time, and the relief on his face is profound. He's trembling, covered in blood and dust, but all he cares about is the demon in front of him. He smiles in relief, sways slightly, and then his eyes roll back and he collapses.

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**I should probably just change the name of this fic to Good Omens: The Cliffhanger. **

**More to come soon guys! :D**


	4. Bruises and Bathtubs

**Hello everyone! Hope you're doing well! I meant to have this up a bit sooner but hopefully the wait wasn't too bad! Thanks again for reading guys! :D**

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"Aziraphale!"

Crowley is up and moving before the angel's name even leaves his lips, staggering to his feet awkwardly and making a desperate lunge for the falling angel. His previously injured leg buckles beneath him mid-step but he's able to catch Aziraphale and tumble down to the floor with him. They land in a clumsy heap, splayed across piles of paper and cracked book spines.

"Aziraphale!" the demon cries again, cradling the angel against his chest as he struggles to pull himself upright. Aziraphale is heavy and limp in his arms, his features slack behind the blood that streaks across his face. There's an ugly gash bisecting his eyebrow and so much blood in his hair that its turned the white blond curls pink. It's a horrible sight, made worse by the fact that Hastur was the one responsible for it.

Crowley groans and pushes himself up, propping his back against an overturned shelf and wrestling with the limp angel in his arms. He ends up mostly upright, half-slumped and half-sitting, with Aziraphale slung across his legs bonelessly.

"Angel," he says, keeping one arm wrapped around Aziraphale while pulling his other arm free and cupping his hand against his cheek.

"Hey, hey," the words come out as a broken whisper, his thumb swiping at a streak of blood that smears across Azirpahale's cheekbone. "It's okay now, everything's okay." There are bruises and cuts everywhere, his skin a mottled patchwork of trauma, and it's all just so _wrong_. Aziraphale shouldn't look like this, bleeding and broken and barely clinging to life. Aziraphale should never look like this...

"Aziraphale," Crowley tries again, swallowing back the surge of panic that accompanies his voice when the angel doesn't respond. "Angel, please...I need you to talk to me, alright? You're scaring me…"

He presses his hand against the unconscious angel's cheek again, frowning at the heat radiating off of him. Aziraphale's skin is too hot, feverish almost, but a cold sweat beads along his hairline and the base of his collar, leaving him cold and clammy at the same time. The shift back to his human form was doing all kinds of weird things to his body's temperature regulation and there appeared to be no sense of stasis as it battled to see whether the appropriate response was raging fever or hypothermia.

He's not moving, hell, he's barely breathing, his body limp and loose in Crowley's arms like a ragdoll. Crowley has experienced plenty of terrible things in his life but this is easily the worst.

A hitched sob escapes the demon's throat and he pulls the angel closer. "Aziraphale please...please…" he mumbles and he's not sure what he's asking for. Forgiveness? A sign of life? He doesn't know but he'll take anything at the moment.

He leans down and presses his lips to Aziraphale's, whispering a wordless prayer to a God he's sure isn't listening. He sobs against the angel's bruised lips, his fingers carding through bloodstained curls. Everything tastes like blood and he wants to gag.

A small, shuddery breath pulls against his lips and he feels Aziraphale shift weakly against him. Crowley laughs and sobs and trembles all at the same time and pulls the angel closer to his chest. He holds him and kisses him and cries for several long, silent moments.

"I'm sorry," he sobs, pressing his lips to the angel's bloody forehead desperately. "I'm so sorry angel." He's rocking them both gently, an unconscious motion he wasn't even aware of until now. "We're safe now," he assures him, concentrating on the shallow, stuttering rise and fall of the angel's chest against his own. "I swear to you we're safe."

"Crowley…" The voice is soft and weak and the demon looks down to see Aziraphale blinking up at him. His eyes are glassy with pain and shock and it takes a moment for the angel's eyes to truly focus on him but once they do a small, a small, relieved smile melts into his features. "I'm so glad you're alright."

Crowley lets out a surprised laugh that sounds a lot like a sob. "You're worried about me?" he asks, cupping the angel's cheek again tenderly. "I'm not the one who decided to go Old Testament in the middle of Soho."

Aziraphale winces, features pinched tight in pain, and groans at the memory. "That would explain why everything hurts."

"That and Hastur," Crowley growls, spitting the name out like its venomous.

Aziraphale's eyes widen suddenly and jolts up like he's trying to sit upright. "Hastur-!"

"Is gone, angel, he's gone," Crowley assures him, tightening his hold on the squirming angel in his lap to keep him from moving.

The sudden jolt in motion causes Aziraphale to let out a painful little whimper and sink back against Crowley, gritting his teeth against the pain. One trembling hand drifts up to cling to something protruding from his vest and Crowley comes to the abrupt, sickening realization that it's a piece of wood. He's not sure where it came from, one of the bookshelves, the floor, a splintered table, but it's about five inches long and piercing through the flesh beneath Aziraphale's ribs.

"Hell below," Crowley mutters breathlessly, staring at the chunk of wood in stunned horror. He has no idea how deep the wood penetrates; it could be a shallow wound or it could be much deeper. What he does know if that it needs to come out and it's not going to be a pleasant process.

"What?" Aziraphale asks shakily, his face still buried against the side of Crowley's throat. His breathing is shuddery and quick like he's trying his best not to pass out. Either the wound isn't as bad as Crowley thinks it is or Aziraphale is in shock and he hasn't felt it. He's leaning toward the latter.

"Nothing," Crowley starts because he doesn't want Aziraphale to panic and potentially aggravate the wound further. "It's just-" he says but stops because he's not sure how to tactfully explain to Aziraphale that there's a barb of wood just casually protruding from his body.

"Okay, okay," he says, swallowing back his panic and stabilizing his voice. "Listen, there's a bit of situation here and I'm going to take care of it and you're going to be fine but…" his voice falters a bit as he speaks. He presses a chaste kiss to Aziraphale's temple and steels himself for what comes next. "Angel, I'm not going to lie to you, this is going to be painful."

Aziraphale is already trembling in his arms, pain and fatigue wracking his body relentlessly, but he reaches down and squeezes Crowley's hand as hard as he can. "I trust you."

The demon squeezes back and raises his hand to press his lips to the angel's bruised knuckles. "Just hang on to me, alright? Just hang on tight."

Aziraphale nods shakily and turns his head, burying it against Crowley's throat again.

It takes a few seconds for Crowley to work up the nerve to reach for the wooden dagger sticking out of Aziraphale's side. He's been around humans long enough now to know that removing a foreign object protruding from a wound is generally frowned upon; usually humans will find their way to a hospital where skilled professionals will remove the offending object and prevent further damage to the body. However, since he and Aziraphale are inherently not human and venturing to a hospital would inevitably raise more questions than either of them was willing to answer, that option was out. The wound will heal on its own within a few days thanks to a combination of celestial healing factors but it couldn't do that with the wood still in there so it had to come out. The problem with that was Crowley was going to have to be the one to pull it out and the thought made him feel like he was going to vomit.

He takes a slow, shuddering breath and forces his hand to stop shaking. There can't be any hesitation in this and he knows it needs to come out in one smooth motion to minimize the pain and trauma. He takes one more breath, grabs the wood, and yanks it out.

Crowley has heard a lot of terrible things in his life. He's heard the gruesome gurgles of men at the gallows, the cacophony of wails coming from the souls of the damned as they endure centuries of torture. He's heard the sound of gunfire, bombs, the slaughtering of innocents by the handful. He's heard everything he ever thought could chip away at the bearings of his soul and then some but nothing in the world, nothing in Hell, nothing in the universe could prepare him for the sound of Aziraphale's scream.

It's a short, desperate keening sound, raw and terrible as a death wail. It ricochets around the room, plants itself in Crowley's mind and buries itself deep. For a few seconds the angel struggles and thrashes against him, a soundless sob wracking through his body and causing him to tremble violently. Crowley holds him tight, one hand pressing hard against the freely bleeding wound and the other keeping Aziraphale's face pressed against his neck. He can feel the angel's teeth against his skin, the shudder of his breath as he gasps and pants in pain. He holds him tight and shushes him gently as the pain and shock gradually fades and Aziraphale is left shaking and limp against him.

"It's alright," he promises, fingers stroking through the angel's sweat-damp hair carefully. "You're alright, I've got you. I've got you, angel."

For several long moments they stay like that, Aziraphale sprawled limp and breathless across Crowley's lap while the demon leans back against the bookshelf. They're both drained, wounded and exhausted, but they have each other and for that moment that's all they need.

"Crowley," Aziraphale mumbles against his throat as the trembling dies down to nothing more than an occasional shiver.

"Mhm?"

"What if he comes back?," the angel mumbles again, his voice getting heavy and thick as he speaks.

Crowley shakes his head once and presses his lips to Aziraphale's temple. "He won't," he tells him simply, leaving out the part that Hastur had been smote into nonexistence. "We're safe now. You saved us."

"Oh, good," Aziraphale chuckles weakly, the sound brittle and thin. "Because he was not a pleasant person and I really hope to never see him again." His voice begins to fade toward the end, the words slurred and muddy. His tenuous hold on consciousness won't last much longer and Crowley knows the gutted remains of the bookshop isn't the best place for him to rest and heal himself. He hates to move him but he also knows he won't be able to carry him in the state he's in if Aziraphale loses consciousness again. He needs to get him somewhere quiet and safe and then he can worry about whatever comes next.

"Come on, angel," he murmurs, shifting the barely conscious Aziraphale in his lap and pulling him against his body as he struggles to stand. His leg still feels like it's flayed open and every movement sends a fiery jolt of pain from his hip down to his toes but he ignores it.

It takes a lot more effort than it should but eventually they make their way into a standing, if somewhat slumped, position. Crowley loops one of Aziraphale's arms around his shoulder and takes the angel's free hand and presses it over the bleeding wound in his side. "Keep pressure on that, alright? Just for a little while."

Aziraphale nods loosely and does what he's told, clamping his hand against the bloody hole in his vest and pressing down until rivulets of blood stream between his fingers. The action causes the color to drain from his face and Crowley is suddenly very concerned he's going to pass out. The moment passes and, despite the fact that he's still rather grey in the face, Aziraphale remains conscious and standing.

He clings to Crowley desperately, one fist tangled weakly in the fabric of Crowley's shirt. He's able to stay upright but it's taking every ounce of strength he has just to do that. When Crowley takes a step, Aziraphale finds himself leaning into him heavily, legs barely supporting his weight let alone cooperating with the complicated process of walking.

It's fine, though, because Crowley can stand and walk well enough for both of them. He keeps one arm looped around the angel's waist, tight enough to keep him upright but loose enough not to aggravate his injuries, and carefully, slowly, guides him toward the destroyed front door of the bookshop.

It's a slow, arduous journey to stagger to the short distance between the bookshop and the Bentley and both angel and demon are panting and exhausted by the time they stumble into the vintage car's door. Crowley wrestles with the door for a few clumsy seconds, cursing the cold drizzle and the blood on his fingers. He finally manages to pull it open just enough to deposit the nearly unconscious Aziraphale into the front seat and then limp around to the driver's side to slide in behind the wheel.

His leg is throbbing relentlessly now and if he didn't know any better he'd be convinced the deep gashes had reopened and split through the muscle again. His hand drifts down unconsciously, groping at the healed wounds and feeling tacky blood drying into the destroyed fabric of his pants. The wounds are closed, even if they still hurt like hell, and he makes a silent reminder to never get healed via divine intervention again.

The engine grumbles to life, the familiar shudder rippling through the car like a greeting. Crowley pats one hand against the steering wheel like he's thanking the car for starting and glances across the seat to Aziraphale, frowning at the angel's slumped posture. One hand is still dutifully pressed over the wound in his side and there's an ugly smear of blood against the back of the seat from where he slid across it. The short stagger to the car had depleted what little strength the angel had left and it looks like he's teetering on the brink of unconsciousness again.

"Aziraphale," Crowley says, reaching over and grabbing the angel's hand. "Angel, hey...come on, stay with me. Open your eyes for me, okay?"

Aziraphale twitches slightly and opens his eyes slowly, blinking owlishly in the dim light of the car. He seems confused for a second but it fades quickly once he realizes they're in the car. He smiles weakly and squeezes Crowley's hand, entangling their fingers together. "Not going anywhere, love," he assures him, gripping the demon's hand like a lifeline.

Crowley lifts his hand and presses a kiss to the top of his bruised knuckles before turning his attention back to the road. "Hold on tight," he says as the ignition turns and the Bentley rumbles away from the curb.

**OOOOO**

By the time they reach the flat Aziraphale has lost consciousness again.

He's slumped in the seat, head lolling loose against his shoulder, and the shallow rise and fall of his chest is the only thing that indicates he's even still alive. His fingers are still intertwined with Crowley's, his grip loose and fingers slack, but he's not letting go. Crowley holds on tight as well, rubbing worried little circles across the back of Aziraphale's hand as he drives.

He swings into a conveniently empty parking space closest to the door outside his flat and groans as he nudges the car door open with his knee. It's started raining in earnest now and it's a cold, bitter rain that seeps through clothing and chills you to the bone. It does absolutely nothing for Crowley's mood and he scowls as he staggers out into it.

The pain in his leg has subsided enough to no longer be blinding but it still feels like there's a rusty screwdriver digging into the muscle. He braces himself for the pain when he steps out and curses impressively when a familiar jolt shoots up his leg. It takes a few seconds for him to stabilize himself and his knuckles go white as he grips the hood of the Bentley waiting for the pain to pass. After several long seconds he finally lets out a slow breath and hobbles around to the passenger side to retrieve his injured angel.

Aziraphale moans into semi-consciousness when Crowley reaches in and tugs him out of the car. It takes some maneuvering and more than one near fall but he's eventually able to stand with Crowley's help and take a few shuffling steps away from the car. It's cold though, miserably cold, and the rain reduces both of them to a shivering mess. By the time they reach the door Crowley is all but dragging Aziraphale.

Luckily no one sees them shambling through the hallways; it would be difficult to explain their soaked, bloody clothes and sundry injuries to anyone who happened to pass by. At best they could say it was the result of a mugging but then there would be police and questions and honestly neither of them had time or energy for that.

It's nothing short of a miracle when they reach Crowley's flat and practically tumble through the front door. The TV is still on, the evening local news droning on about the rain and the weather and it seems pointless to pay attention to it now since they're both soaked to the bone and well aware of how cold it is outside.

Aziraphale is nearly unconsciousness again and Crowley isn't doing much better thanks to the sudden drop in temperature but he manages to drag them both to the bathroom before his body can really begin to shut down from the cold.

The bathroom, like everything else in the flat, is huge, sleek, and modern. There are stainless steel faucets, granite countertops, a shower that could be mistaken for a walk-in closet, and a bathtub big enough to float a kayak comfortably. It's spacious enough to easily accommodate a family of eight and with just the two of them it seems like the size of a department store. The floors are spotless, the faucets shiny and gleaming from disuse and the housekeeper always silently wonders how Crowley keeps the bathroom so clean and the simple answer is that he never uses it.

As much as Crowley's serpentine instincts want to curl up and hibernate under a warm rock, he knows the best chance for both of them is to get clean, warm, and then dry. His own body can't take much more of the cold, wet clothes clinging to him and he knows Aziraphale isn't faring much better. The angel's body is still struggling to re-regulate its core temperature and in spite of the bitter cold outside his skin feels clammy and feverish. Addressing the potential hypothermia issue seems most pressing so that's what Crowley focuses on first.

He deposits Aziraphale as gently as he can against the wall and limps over to the tub, sinking slowly and painfully down to his knees and turning on the faucet. He's never used the tub before, never had a reason to really, but tonight seems like as good a night as any.

The steady drum of the water as it comes out of the pipes is hypnotic and Crowley feels himself beginning to drift as he watches the tub fill. He shakes his head and grits his teeth, pushing himself back onto his feet and stumbling back over to retrieve Aziraphale. The angel is still slumped against the wall, his rain soaked clothes clinging to him like a second skin. The rain water has mixed with the blood in his hair and on his face and is creating tiny, crimson rivers that trickle off his skin and drip into pinkish blotches on the tile floor. It's going to be hell getting it out of the grout but it's something Crowley will worry about later.

He wrestles Aziraphale out of his bloodstained, tattered jacket, mindful of the bloody wound in his side, and tosses it in the general direction of the hamper across the room. There's no point in trying to save the clothes, they're ruined anyway, but it will at least get them out of the way for the time being. He does the same with the vest and the undershirt but freezes when the removal exposes the angel's skin.

Aziraphale's chest and torso are mottled with dark, ugly bruises of every shape, color, and size. The puncture wound he knew about but everything else is horrific. An explosion of deep red and purple creates an impressive patchwork over the ribs on his right side and it's clear that the bones are fractured if not completely broken. His throat is equally discolored, dark blotches of blue and purple creating a myriad of bruises in the shape of fingers.

Hastur's fingers.

It's a ghastly display and provides awful insight into what Aziraphale had suffered through before Crowley got there.

The appearance of the bruises and the knowledge that Hastur had been the one responsible is enough to make Crowley's breath hitch with rage in his chest. He grits his teeth, hands trembling slightly with barely suppressed fury, and shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he whispers to the unconscious angel slumped against his bathroom wall. "I'm so sorry, angel…" He doubts Aziraphale can hear him but he says it anyway because he needs to, he feels like he needs to apologize for the next two hundred years at least.

"I never should have let that bastard get close to you," he mutters, enraged with Hastur and enraged with himself. He's all too aware of how easily Hastur could have killed Aziraphale if he wasn't too busy toying with him and he hates that the angel had ever been at risk. He mutters another apology as he removes the rest of Aziraphale's clothes, leaving him clad in his underwear for modesty's sake. At least now he has a full scope of the injuries and what he's working with (not that it makes it any better, the sight of all the bruises still makes him want to gag).

He makes quick work of his own clothes, shucking the water-logged shirt and jeans and tossing them toward the hamper as well. His own body doesn't look much better by comparison. His arms and chest are peppered with an impressive array of ugly bruises as well and there are a few deep scratches across his back and shoulders from where he'd been slammed into one of many splintered bookshelves. His left leg is still streaked with blood from where the glass had sliced through the muscle and in spite of the wounds being closed the marks are still there, inflamed and angry with newly formed scar tissue. The scars will be healed completely within the next few days but for right now they're still painful and raw, an ugly reminder of everything that happened.

He straightens, groans, and turns off the faucet. A warm billow of steam hovers around the tub and helps chase away the first few layers of cold. The bathroom is well insulated and doesn't allow for drafts once the door is closed which was nice because right now anything that keeps the chilly, damp air from creeping into the bathroom was infinitely , Crowley reaches down and lifts Aziraphale off the wall, pulling him close so he doesn't slip out of his grip.

Getting the two of them into the bathtub is not a graceful experience. Aziraphale is deadweight and Crowley is limping and they don't enter the tub so much as belly flop into it like two wounded manatees.

And then Aziraphale starts panicking.

Again, the tub could be mistaken for a small hotel pool and Aziraphale, who had been unconscious prior to be inadvertently dumped in said tub, jolts back to consciousness in a panic and immediately begins thrashing around. Crowley catches an elbow to the ribs and gets smacked in the face at least once before he's able to successfully wrap his arms around the flailing angel and convince him they weren't drowning.

Aziraphale, still delirious with pain and exhaustion, eventually realizes they're not hopelessly adrift following some disastrous excursion and relaxes enough to sink back against Crowley's chest. He doesn't seem completely aware of his surroundings, blinking around the room in confusion and trying to connect the dots in his head. It could be a combination of fatigue or the likelihood of a head injury or it could just be that he's never seen Crowley's bathroom before and didn't know it existed until this exact moment.

He doesn't seem to notice they're both in their underwear, a realization which would have undoubtedly led to much fluster and embarrassment had he been anywhere near fully cognizant. Instead he lets his head fall back against Crowley's shoulder and listens as the demon whispers quiet reassurances beside his ear. At some point Aziraphale drifts off again but Crowley keeps talking, murmuring soft promises against the angel's bruised temple.

It takes some effort to keep them both propped against the side of the tub but the warmth and the weightlessness of the water helps drive away the cold and ease some of the aches and soreness. Ice would probably be better for any kind of swelling but it's not exactly something Crowley is excited about so he disregards the idea. Aziraphale is heavy against his chest, the angel's face tucked against the side of his throat. His level of trust and faith in the demon is undeniable and Crowley can't help but tighten his arms around him a bit more and hold him closer.

He scoops a handful of water into Aziraphale's hair, shushing the angel softly when he whimpers as it comes in contact with the wounds in his scalp. The grisly stains in his hair dissolve slowly, pink tinged water slipping down the sides of his face and swirling around them in a macabre water-color red. It takes a while to gently wash away all the layers of dried and drying blood but when it finally comes away the angel's injuries look better if only marginally. The bruises are still hideous and there are still dozens of cuts and scrapes to contend with but at least he's not covered in blood anymore.

The wound in his side is still the most worrisome, the skin around the puncture inflamed and ugly. It's still bleeding sluggishly, crimson tendrils of blood swirling into macabra and mesmerizing patterns in the water, but it's nowhere near the steady flow it had been earlier. Crowley briefly wonders if he should try dressing it but realizes, rather abruptly, that he has nothing in the way of bandages. He's almost disappointed with himself for the lack of preparedness but quickly realizes he's never needed to keep bandages on hand for any reason other than principle. Both he and Azirpahale could heal themselves from any minor or major injury they sustained and so keeping a well-stocked first aid kit never seemed necessary. He regrets it now though, as stupid as it seems, because he feels like a first aid kit would at least give him a little nudge of confidence with the whole wound care thing.

Aziraphale had healed him earlier but at a cost; miracles of that magnitude would have been hard on him even if he were completely healthy and not battered and bruised like the losing party of a boxing match. Attempting any kind of self healing right now may actually make his injuries worse which was rather counterproductive. What he needs now, what they both need, is rest and then the healing will come after.

Crowley isn't sure how long they stay in the tub, sagged against the porcelain walls with the warm water lapping against their skin. Aziraphale is unconscious again but his breathing is steady and for that Crowley is grateful. The heat has revived him slightly and he no longer feels like he wants to shut down and collapse on the floor. However, there was still the chance that his inner serpent could decide to remind him, rather forcefully, that it was coldblooded and knock him into a coma because he got too cold. Better to get out and get dry now rather than risk that happening and letting them both drown in bloody bath water.

The water is tinged pink by the time Crowley pulls the plug and there's a fine layer of dirt and grit lining the bottom of the tub once the water drains completely. Like so many other things tonight, he vows to deal with it later and slowly, carefully, lifts Aziraphale from the tub and hauls him to the bedroom.

It takes a lot more energy than he really has but he's able to miracle some soft, loose clothing for the two of them. He eases Aziraphale onto the bed, tugging the blankets over him carefully and then sliding in next to him. Everything hurts, his head, his back, his leg, but they're alive and honestly that's all he can ask for at the moment. He pulls Aziraphale into his arms, feels the angel breathe against him, and immediately falls asleep.

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**More to come soon! :D**


	5. Conversations With God

**Hello all! Hope you're doing well! I meant to have this chapter up last week but moving day happened and I got sidetracked. Anyway, this was a weird, kind of abstract chapter to write; other than Her voice we know nothing about God in the series so I'm taking a lot of liberties here. I also fully believe that She knew/planned for these two idiots to get together since the dawn of time and is quietly pleased with the development. **

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Aziraphale dreams about God.

It's been a long time since he's seen the Almighty, millennia really, and he's not exactly sure what to do with his hands. He fumbles with the lapels of his jacket, smooths away nonexistent wrinkles. He realizes, rather suddenly, that his clothes are well-pressed and spotless; the rips and tears, the blood and dirt, all of it has disappeared and he's left just as clean and polished as he'd always been. He wonders if it's a byproduct of the dream itself or if it's some kind of divine intervention since he's dreaming of, well, God.

For a brief, alarming moment he wonders if he's been discorporated again. He's been discorporated three times during his time on earth: once in the Library of Alexandria, again during the Great Fire of London, and finally in 1913 when he, like everyone else, was trying to figure out the new wave of automobiles that were sweeping the market. The last time he was discorporated had easily been his most embarrassing incident; he'd been trying to figure out the sundry gears and clutches of a Baker & Dale cyclecar when he lost control of the vehicle and drove it straight off a bridge.

It wasn't just the fact that his body had been destroyed when he toppled into the river and the car essentially landed on top of him; no, the worst part had been trying to explain what driving was and why he had even been attempting it in the first place. He had eventually been granted a new body after completing the veritable mountain of paperwork necessary to explain what had happened to his previous one and how it had been destroyed but he still cringes every time he thinks back to having to explain to Gabriel and Michael that his previous body was at the bottom of a river in Sussex because he pulled the wrong lever.

The prospect of having been discorporated again makes him uneasy. It was always an ordeal to apply for a new body and it could usually take anywhere between a couple of weeks to a couple of years (in earth standards) for the paperwork to be filed and applied correctly but he's aware that there may be some kind of limit as to how many times he's allowed to destroy his physical form before he's cut off from requesting a new one. Perhaps Heaven has some kind of 'three strikes and you're out' rule? If that's the case then he's already had his three strikes; one more and it may be game over.

Still, he doesn't feel like he's been discorporated. Being discorporated usually left him with a bit of hollow feeling in his chest, the loss of a body that wasn't really his. He remembers once speaking with a young man who had lost an arm during the Great War and how he sometimes felt like he could still feel the sensation of the missing limb. Of course the limb was no longer there but he would experience distorted, muted sensations like it was still attached. Aziraphale thinks maybe he feels the same way when he's been discorporated; the body is gone and yet he can still feel it.

This time is different, though. He can still _feel_ his body although in that numb, unconscious way that a sleeping person will feel their body in a dream. It's still there, he knows it's still there, but he's detached from it in a way. It's an odd sensation but there's no finality to it unlike the severance of discorporation.

He comes to the conclusion that he is, in fact, dreaming and feels a bit of his apprehension bleed away. However, this by no means implies he's comfortable with the composition of the dream itself. He did disobey Heaven, after all.

He's not in a room per say, it's more like a designated space that could function as a room if it wanted to or it could also function as wormhole. There are walls but they're so tall he can't see the top and the floor is a smooth, white marble that's been so expertly polished is nearly serves as a mirror. It reflects the walls and the ceiling (at least Aziraphale is assuming there's a ceiling...somewhere) in such a way that it makes the entire room feel like it's projected in a prism.

God is sitting behind a solid oak desk, Her hands folded delicately over the warm, polished wood. She looks up when She sees him, knowing, waiting, like She's been expecting for him, which of course She has. She lifts one hand and gestures to a chair in front of Her desk.

Aziraphale doesn't remember sitting down, he doesn't even remember moving, but he finds himself perched in front of the desk with his hands folded in his lap, face-to-face with the great Creator. He sits very still and says nothing; he's never received a formal education but he imagines this is what it must feel like for a child to sit in front of the headmaster's desk. You know, if the headmaster also doubled as the architect of the universe.

God studies him for several silent seconds which could be reinterpreted as decades if the right person were to ask. Her features change by the second, at times strong and masculine and then the next moment soft and feminine. Her hair is short and close-cropped, a collection of loose, light curls that hang around Her head like a cloud.

"Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate" God says.

Well, She doesn't exactly _say_ anything; Her mouth never moves, nothing is truly spoken, but the words are there nonetheless. Her voice fills Aziraphale's head, each letter, vowel, consonant taking shape in a way spoken language cannot. It flows through him, perfect and soundless all at once. He knows Her voice the way he knows his own; it makes up every atom, every particle, every molecule. He's known Her voice before time began, before existence itself.

"It's been a long time." Her expression is unreadable but it might have included a mild smile.

Aziraphale returns the smile but wonders if it's the correct reaction since he's not exactly sure it's a smile in the first place. "Only a few millennia," he replies breezily, wincing at how loud his voice sounds in his own ears. Compared to Her's, his is grating like a power drill going through concrete. "A blink of an eye, really."

"I understand you relocated your Sword," God continues, watching him wordlessly from across the desk. She's impossible to read and if ever there existed a 100% neutral expression it would have been Her's.

"Yes," Aziraphale blurts, feeling a flush of embarrassment wash across his features. "Silly old thing, looked for it for ages. Couldn't find it for the life of me." He's not sure why he's lying, God obviously knows about the Sword and where's it's been all this time, but it feels a lot like being caught red-handed with something and then being asked point blank why you were doing it.

"I also understand you refused a direct order and stood against the forces of Heaven in order to prevent Armageddon."

This statement is a bit harder to dispute and Aziraphale feels his hands ball into nervous fists against his legs. He suddenly can't look at God directly and feels his head lower in shame. She's watching him impassively, her eyes old and infinite. They're the eyes of a parent scrutinizing a disobedient child, of a Creator watching their creation rebel against the very fabric of their being. And yet there's no disappointment, no regret or chagrin, just neutral observance.

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale says, his voice quivering just slightly as he speaks. "I know what I did was wrong, that it stood in the way of the Ineffable Plan." He swallows hard before continuing, steeling himself for what comes next. "But I do not regret my actions nor the choices I've made."

God watches him silently and there's a very small lift of one eyebrow.

"The earth," Aziraphale begins but quickly amends himself. "Humanity deserves a chance. Yes, they're still primitive and underdeveloped and sometimes they can be outright stupid but they're capable of such great things in so many ways. They can be gentle and loving and brilliant and they're constantly learning about the world around them. They're the most curious species I've ever encountered and they want nothing more than to understand themselves and the life they've been given."

He stops and thinks back to all the long, long years he's been on earth and everything he's learned about humanity. "They still falter sometimes, there are times when they can be unspeakably cruel and barbaric, but they have a remarkable tendency to rise above it. I've seen them at their lowest and again at their greatest. For every act of cruelty there are dozens of acts of kindness, their brutality gives way to profound acts of love and generosity. They're an incredible species, Lord, and...well, I just thought maybe they deserved a chance to become better, to become great."

God says nothing for several unbearably long seconds. Aziraphale thinks he might see the barest hint of a smile but it's impossible to tell. It's like trying to catch your reflection in the middle of a storm tossed sea.

"Humanity still has much to prove," God reasons finally, Her fingers tapping softly against the desktop. "But they also have much room to grow. They are such an incredibly young species in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps they will continue to grow and improve themselves or perhaps not. Only time will tell."

She looks at him then and Her eyes move like constellations. "Armageddon will remain delayed," She declares and Aziraphale can't suppress the relieved sigh that whooshes out of him at Her decision. "However," She continues, fixing him with Her cosmic eyes. "The final battle between Heaven and Hell is inevitable, Aziraphale, you know this to be true."

Aziraphale nods hesitantly, unable to meet her eyes for longer than a few seconds at a time. It's like staring at the sun while it fades into a black hole; they're limitless and unfathomable.

"When that time comes, there will be no interference. The war will progress and the earth itself will be destroyed."

"I understand."

God offers a single dip of her head in acknowledgement. "With a little luck humanity will be far away when this happens. If all goes according to Plan," She continues with a knowing look because all will go according to Plan and She knows it. "Earth will have been abandoned for several centuries by the time the war begins and the planet will serve as an empty, lifeless battlefield for the forces of Heaven and Hell to meet. Humans will be living among the stars by then, continuing on as they always have."

One finger traces an indiscernible pattern across the desktop. "They still have much to learn. Humanity will eventually reach the stars but as of now they have accomplished little more than poking at the rocks in their backyard."

Aziraphale chuckles in spite of himself, the noise sudden and unexpected. When God looks at him he sobers quickly.

"As for your...involvement with the demon Crowley," God continues, watching him carefully from across Her desk. Again her expression remains entirely neutral, her cosmic eyes inscrutable.

Aziraphale feels a wave emotion wash over him. He's not entirely sure how to classify it but he feels every emotion he's capable of sweep through him all at once. He feels himself flush, suddenly self-conscious and all too aware of everything around him. God knows everything, She always has, and She _definitely_ knows about his relationship with Crowley. She knows every intimate detail, every stolen glance and secret desire. She knows everything and yet he's still flustered by Her acknowledgement of it.

"I…" he begins, swallowing thickly and forcing himself to look up and meet her gaze. "I do not regret that either. Crowley, he...he's good and kind and considerate. He's a demon, yes, but he's one of the greatest beings I've ever met. I could not change my feelings for him no more than I could change the weather."

He feels like he's trying to justify his feelings but at the same time he feels like it's not necessary. He and Crowley were crafted the same way everything else in the universe was which meant that God Herself made them exactly how they should have been. God's design was as ineffable as her Plan and She knew everything about every person on earth, supernatural beings included. She knew who they would become, who they were meant to be, who they were meant to be with. If he was to believe in the Ineffable Plan (which he still did) and the concept that God did not make mistakes, then his relationship with Crowley was always meant to happen.

"If this means I am to Fall," Aziraphale continues, speaking slowly and clearly in the expansive silence of the room. "Then I accept it. I will not question your actions." The words have a kind of finality to them that Aziraphale hadn't expected. He finds that he doesn't dread the prospect of Falling or what God's decision will be. There had been a time when he feared that more than anything, when the idea of Falling was the worst possible thing that could happen. Now he only fears losing Crowley, everything else is bearable.

For a few long seconds God says nothing. She had expected the answer, She knew what he would say before it was ever even a question.

"You will not Fall, Aziraphale," God assures him after another moment of silence has passed. "Humanity still requires both Heavenly and Hellish influences in order to progress and a liaison on Earth is still necessary for both sides."

"However," She pauses, looking at him again with her ancient yet ageless eyes. "Your disobedience toward Heaven cannot go unpunished. As such, both you and the demon Crowley will hereby be disavowed and banished from both Heaven and Hell. You will have no further contact with either divine or demonic administrators and they will have no contact with you. Any transgressors on behalf of either party will result in immediate termination."

She watches him, Her eyes awash with galaxies and stardust. "Do you understand these terms?"

Aziraphale nods once in affirmation. "I do," he says, sitting a tiny bit straighter in the chair. Her elaboration of their banishment confirms what they both already knew and expected but She has also ensured that they can no longer be bothered, followed, threatened, or punished by the forces of Heaven or Hell. In a weird, roundabout sort of way, God has declared them off limits and will ensure that anyone who disobeys Her orders will be met with swift and unquestionable justice.

Yes, Aziraphale thinks he can live with that.

"Good," God replies with a small nod of Her own, Her words filtering through his blood and ringing through his head like ten thousand bells.

The room seems to shift and fade around them then, the prismatic walls shimmering like a heat mirage. Aziraphale realizes the dream is coming to an end, that his consciousness is drifting back beyond this plane.

"Farewell, Aziraphale," God's voice echoes through the remnants of the dream, filling every space around him. "It will be a very long time before we see each other again."

Aziraphale wants to answer, wants to respond to her parting, but no words come out. Maybe that's how it should be, maybe he's not meant to say anything.

So he doesn't.

He remains silent as the room in his dream reverts to little more than space and light, the world in his mind losing shape and dissolving into nothingness. The dream fades, Aziraphale fades, and then it all is quiet.

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**Thanks for reading guys! Last chapter up soon! :D**


	6. Recovery and Rom-coms

**Efffff so sorry for the long gap between chapters guys! I work on a college campus and between graduation, the incoming freshman class, and classes starting back up up I wasn't able to write as much as I had before! Anyway, enough of my excuses!**

**Thank you all so much for reading and following along with this little story! It was a lot of fun to write (sadistic as that sounds) and I'm so happy you all enjoyed it! You guys are the best!**

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Crowley awakens twice.

The first time it takes him a few minutes to remember where he is and what happened. Consciousness is not a thing he wants right now and, as such, he's pretty pissed when finds himself slowly and painstakingly pulled from the silence of slumber. He blinks a few times, briefly wondering why he can't see anything, before coming to the realization that it's not because he's suddenly gone blind but rather because he's lying in a dark room.

His bedroom to be precise.

He has enough spacial awareness to recognize the room even though he can't really see anything at the moment, an intrinsic kind of familiarity that comes with living in one place for several years. He has no idea what time it is but considering it's still dark and it's still raining he guesses it's probably sometime in the middle of the night. He can still hear the soft push and pull of traffic from the streets down below but the sound is muted, the blackout curtains over the windows doing an admirable job of dampening the noise and keeping the bedroom as cave-like as possible.

He's not sure why he's awake at what-the-hell-o'clock in the morning but he thinks it might have to do with the fact that he feels like he's been hit by a truck. He's sore and achy and stiff all over and even though his body heals faster than a human's would it's little consolation when it still feels like he's been tumbled around in a cement mixer for a few days. The muscles in his arms and back twinge in warning as he moves and his injured leg cramps painfully as it's shifted into a new position. The searing pain he had experienced when the wounds were being healed has faded but the previously torn muscles are still tight and stiff as his leg continues to mend itself.

Aziraphale's back is still pressed against his chest, the angel as still and quiet as the room around them. For one brief moment Crowley is able to convince himself that everything is fine and that the night before had been nothing more than a bad dream. Aziraphale came over for dinner, they had a lovely evening together, and then they went to bed; nothing terrifying or life threatening to speak of. It was a nice thought, one he would have loved to have been true, but the whole hit-by-a-truck feeling that's taken up residence in his body and the fact that he can still smell blood in the angel's hair are cruel reminders that the night they had instead had been just as horrible as he remembered.

He had come so close to losing Aziraphale tonight, to having the angel ripped from his life completely. Aziraphale has been discorporated before, he knows that, but this would have been different. Hastur would have torn him apart both literally and figuratively, shredding every atom of his body, his mind, his soul until there was nothing left. Hastur would have destroyed Aziraphale, pure and simply, and he would have made Crowley endure every unbearable second of it.

The realization is jarring and it shakes him all the way down to his core. His breath hitches somewhere right behind his sternum and it suddenly feels like there's a half ton weight settled against his chest. For a moment he doesn't know whether he wants to sob or scream because it feels like every negative emotion he's capable of feeling balls and coils in the small space between his throat and his chest and is actively trying to claw its way out. He swallows hard and clamps a hand over his mouth, desperate to keep the shuddering gasp from making its way out into the open.

He snakes one arm around Aziraphale again and pulls him close, pressing the palm of his hand flat against the angel's chest. He concentrates on Aziraphale's breathing, on feeling the push and pull of his chest and the solidity of his body. It's enough to ease the tightness in his own chest and release some of the tension that's coiled tight and rigid throughout his body. He swallows once and buries his face on the back of the angel's neck, lips brushing against damp, loose curls.

_Aziraphale is here...he's safe...everything is okay…_

It becomes a mantra that he repeats over and over, forcing himself to believe and trust in each word in an effort to shape it into reality. He closes his eyes again and concentrates on mimicking the angel's breathing, inhaling when he does and exhaling in time with him. The stability of it, the hypnotic rhythm is enough to shake away his earlier panic and he feels himself beginning to drift again.

He holds Aziraphale close, presses a kiss to the back of his neck, and slips back under.

**OOOOO**

He awakens again some time later because the bed is shaking.

More specifically, Aziraphale is shaking.

Crowley jolts awake and for a brief, alarming moment his sleep-addled brain can only form the word _earthquake_. He looks around the room, trying to make out shapes and pieces of furniture in the dark. The windows aren't rattling and the overhead fan doesn't seem to be swaying which leads him to reconsider his earlier assumption. He frowns and realizes the shaking is localized, affecting the bed and not much else.

Aziraphale is next to him, hopelessly tangled in the bedsheets and shivering all over. He's curled in on himself as tightly as he can, arms hugging his torso like he's trying to conserve body heat. The bedroom is still dark so Crowley can't really see his features but he thinks he can hear the angel's teeth chattering which somehow makes it worse.

"Angel, hey," he says quietly, reaching out and brushing his hand against Aziraphale's shoulder. He doesn't want to startle him anymore than necessary so he keeps his voice as low and soft as possible. "Hey, wake up."

Aziraphale jumps just slightly and sucks in a breath that sounds a bit like a gasp. He groans in the darkness and fumbles blindly with the sheets he's cocooned himself in. Crowley provides assistance and gently pulls away the sheets to help him get untangled.

Aziraphale's hand catches his and the angel clings to it desperately. "Crowley?" he asks warily, almost like he's not sure what the answer will be.

"Right here," the demon assures him, bringing Aziraphale's hand up and pressing a kiss to his palm. He rubs a gentle circle into the back of his hand and reaches out to further extricate the angel from the sheets.

"Where are we?" Aziraphale asks, his voice still tinged with sleep and wariness at having woken up in an unfamiliar, dark room.

"My flat," Crowley tells him, sinking back down beside him and sweeping his fingers through Aziraphale's hair gently. "We're safe, don't worry."

"Mm," the angel hums, leaning into the touch and relaxing marginally. He's still shivering but it doesn't seem as pronounced as it had been a few seconds earlier.

"You alright?" Crowley asks quietly, still feeling a few lingering tremors ripple across the bed.

"No," Aziraphale answers rather bluntly and it sounds like he might be clenching his teeth. "Everything hurts."

Crowley frowns and sits up a bit straighter. "Alright, hang on," he says, reaching over to the bedside table and fumbling for the lamp. He nearly switches it on but hesitates for a moment, turning back to shield Aziraphale's eyes before flipping the lamp switch. All at once the room is filled with a warm fluorescent glow, the earlier darkness dissipating in an instant. They both wince in spite of themselves, the sudden explosion of light cause them both to cringe and shy away. The discomfort fades after a second and Crowley blinks a few times to get his bearings before turning back to Aziraphale.

"Okay, let me take a look at you," he says, carefully pushing himself up so he can see Aziraphale more clearly. The light from the lamp casts odd shadows across the room that sinks into the hollows of his features and create sharp contrasts between his eyes and his cheekbones, the combination making him appear gaunt. It's alarming for a moment but Crowley quickly realizes it's nothing more than a trick of the light and is able to dismiss the flash of distress that ripples through him.

Most of the bruises have started to fade, the darkest and ugliest ones still visible along his throat and hairline. The cuts and scratches that had peppered his face and arms have started to heal as well, only the deeper ones remaining. There's still a pretty ugly split through one eyebrow and deeper gash along his scalp from where his head collided with the corner of a desk but they're healing well and should be gone completely within another day or so.

Satisfied, Crowley rests his hand gently against Aziraphale's chest. "I need to take a look at your ribs, alright?"

The angel nods and bites back a wince when the shirt is carefully, oh so carefully, lifted up and his skin is exposed.

The bruises across his ribs and torso are still nasty and dark, a patchwork of purple, blue, and green, and Crowley can't quite suppress the hiss that slithers out at the sight. There are splotches of yellow along the edges of some of them, hues of mustard and lemon creeping into the deeper shades of plum and dark blue.

He passes his fingers over the nearest cluster, his touch impossibly soft and feather-light. However, even that is too much and Aziraphale winces and sucks in a sharp breath at the contact.

"Sorry, sorry," the demon apologizes softly, pulling his hand away from the tender, discolored skin. The bruises are still ugly but they're healing so it's progress.

The wound in his side looks better as well, if only marginally. A thick scab has covered the puncture and the skin around it is still bruised and swollen but it's no longer a gaping hole in his side. That wound might take a little longer to heal because of the severity but it is healing which is a good sign.

The problem is that healing is painful (as Crowley so vividly remembers from his own experience with it) and the process, while necessary, tended to require a lot of stamina and endurance, neither of which Aziraphale possessed a great deal of at the moment. What little strength he had regained while he was asleep was immediately being transferred into the healing process and it left him shivering and depleted. His body was doing it's best to heal everything all at once, minor and major wounds alike, and it was proving to be an extremely painful, taxing experience.

"Well the good news is I think you're going to pull through," Crowley tells him, gently lowering Aziraphale's shirt and pulling the blanket back over his chest. He sinks back down onto the mattress beside him and cups his cheek, running his thumb along his cheekbone slowly. "The bad news is that your body is still trying to heal itself and I can't promise that's going to be a pleasant experience."

Aziraphale makes some kind of noncommittal noise which sounds an awful lot like, "ugh."

"I know," Crowley agrees, pressing a soft kiss to the angel's feverish brow. He switches the light off and gathers Aziraphale in his arms, holding him close as the angel continues to shiver and grimace against the multitude of repairs his body is attempting to make. "You should try to get some more sleep," he tells him quietly, trailing his fingers across his back in what he hopes is soothing and not painful.

"Easier said than done," Aziraphale mumbles against his chest, shifting into a more comfortable position and nuzzling his face into the side of Crowley's neck again.

"Mm," the demon mumbles, swooping his hand down the length of Aziraphale's spine once again, fingertips softly passing over bone and muscle. He rests his chin on top of the angel's head and thinks for a moment.

"Have I ever told you about the time I convinced an entire town that rock music and dancing were akin to devil worship and should be banned for the good of the townsfolk's mortal souls?"

Aziraphale chuckles softly, painfully, against his chest and shakes his head. "No, I don't believe you have."

"Yeah, back in the late 70s," Crowley continues, staring up at the now darkened ceiling and focusing on the soft hum of the overhead fan. "I went abroad to America for a few years to see what the colonists had been up to all this time and stumbled across this little town that took the Bible _way_ too seriously and was all too eager to believe that mundane activities were somehow sinful and, well, one thing led to another and boom: total ban on music and dancing for a couple years."

"That seems like an odd reaction," Aziraphale murmurs, relaxing a little as the shivering lessens and gradually begins to fade.

Crowley shrugs loosely. "Mention fire and brimstone and eternal damnation and most people will drop the most banal activities like they're bad habits."

"Fair enough," Aziraphale allows, his breath tickling the hollow of Crowley's throat. "So whatever happened to the town? Is the ban still in place?"

"Well," Crowley says, continuing to slowly, carefully trail his fingers up and down Aziraphale's back. "It held for a while but the teenagers of the town started to rebel and demand that dancing be brought back and there was this big town council vote which didn't pass at first but you know how persistent young people can be. Eventually the town agreed to allow dancing and rock music back into the community and thus I was thwarted again."

Aziraphale laughs softly against him again but it's clear he's beginning to fall asleep once more. Crowley keeps talking about the fictional town as the angel's breathing slows and evens out and yeah, he knows none of it is true but he also knows Aziraphale has never seen _Footloose _and therefore can't call bullshit on his narrative treatment of the movie's plot so he doesn't stress about it.

By the time he starts mumbling about the time he dropped in at a resort and interfered with a few dance competitions (Aziraphale has also never seen _Dirty Dancing_), the angel is asleep and snoring softly against his chest.

Crowley keeps talking, narrating the plotlines of about five silly 1980's American rom-coms because his TV got stuck on a marathon one afternoon and he found himself glued to the story after the six minute mark for each movie. He figures one day he'll force Aziraphale to sit down and watch them but for now it serves his purposes to insert himself into the plot and claim the subsequent actions and reactions as his own.

He keeps talking until his own voice starts to sound muffled and far away, until it becomes drowned out by the hum of the overhead fan and the drone of traffic outside. He's halfway through the plot of _The Breakfast Club_ when the words fade off and he falls asleep again.

**OOOOO**

The next time Crowley opens his eyes there are fingers sliding through his hair slowly and he's drooling on something warm and soft. He blinks, frowns, coughs for about seven full seconds because his mouth and throat are dried out, and then pushes himself up carefully. A few muted bands of sunlight are attempting to stream through the curtains and the grumble and groan of traffic from below leads him to believe that it's sometime around the morning rush hour. He has no idea what time it is but he thinks there should be a law against making this much noise so early (?) in the morning.

"Good morning, dear," a voice greets from above and Crowley twists himself just enough to look up and see Aziraphale smiling warmly down at him, just as whole and healthy as he's always been.

"Hey," he says softly, wincing at the sandpaper quality of his voice. He reaches up and cups the angel's cheek, stroking his thumb across his cheekbone. "How do you feel?"

Aziraphale leans into his touch, closing his eyes briefly and simply enjoying the contact. He reaches up and covers Crowley's hand with his own.

"Better," he tells him after a second or so of silence.

"You don't have to lie to me, angel," Crowley tells him quietly; he can tell the answer isn't as accurate as Aziraphale probably hoped it would be. There's still some mild tightness to his features, a very small pinch around his eyes that indicates he's still not completely recovered.

Aziraphale huffs out a small chuckle and rolls his eyes. "Well, better than before at least."

"That's more like it."

The bruises have faded almost completely by now, the darkest ones little more than dull shadows against the angel's skin. There are still a few around his throat that Crowley is unhappy about but they're not angry and dark like they were before. The bruises across his chest and torso have faded as well and the wound in his side is almost completely healed, the pink ripple of scar tissue small and barely visible. Crowley lets his hand linger against Aziraphale's cheek for a few seconds longer, relieved to feel that the angel's skin is no longer hot and feverish like it was before.

"How long have you been awake?" he asks, slowly lowering himself back down onto the bed and settling back against Aziraphale's chest. He's careful with how he positions his body; despite the fading bruises and healing wounds he's still worried about leaning too heavily against the angel for fear of hurting him.

Fingers slide back through his hair gently and Aziraphale's other hand comes to rest in the space between his shoulder blades. "A few hours," he answers after a moment, his thumb tracing a slow line down Crowley's spine. "I woke up once the traffic started to get heavier."

Again Crowley curses the traffic on the street below and everyone involved. "You should have slept longer."

"Hmm, probably," Aziraphale agrees mildly, blunt fingernails dragging across the demon's scalp. "But then I would have missed this."

Crowley makes some kind of disgruntled grumbling noise and knocks Aziraphale's leg with his knee which causes him to chuckle. He sighs and nestles his face against angel's chest again and lets his arms slip under him so they're pinned beneath Aziraphale's shoulders. It's not an uncomfortable position and this way he can feel the warm solidity of the angel's body between his arms.

"I'm just glad you're alright," he tells him quietly, the words coming out slightly muffled from where his cheek is flattened against the fabric of Aziraphale's shirt. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the soft scent of cotton, honey, and orange tea that is 100% uniquely Aziraphale. It's comforting and familiar and he wants to trap it in a bottle and hoard it for the rest of his life.

"I am," the angel tells him, his fingers continuing their slow glide through his hair. "Thanks to you."

Crowley grumbles to himself at this. "Hastur beat you to a bloody pulp thanks to me."

Aziraphale's fingers pause for the briefest of moments and he tuts softly. "Hush now, there'll be none of that," he admonishes gently as he drags his fingers through the demon's hair once more.

"I'm serious, angel."

"So am I, Crowley," Aziraphale counters with the patience and resolve of someone who expected this argument to come up eventually. "I won't have you accepting any kind of blame or responsibility for what happened."

Crowley grumbles again, irritably. "Angel, if I wasn't for me, Hastur-"

"Would have killed me," Aziraphale interjects bluntly; his voice is still quiet and patient but it holds no room for argument. "Darling, Hastur's actions were his own and no one else's; whatever his reasons, whatever he had planned, you are in no way to blame for any of it. I was well aware of any kind of risk or danger I might face when we switched places; I knew what I was getting myself into. I would have walked through every layer of Hell, twice and barefoot, if it meant keeping you safe, my dear. There was never any question or hesitation."

Aziraphale's hand slips down to the short hair at the base of Crowley's skull, his thumb sweeping short, slow lines across the nape of his neck. "What happened with Hastur was bad, yes, but I don't regret it. There is nothing in Heaven, Hell, the world, or the universe that would ever make me regret what I have with you, Crowley, nothing. The only thing I will ever regret is taking so long to get to where we are now."

Crowley mumbles something, buries his face in Aziraphale's shirt, and valiantly convinces himself that the wetness in his eyes is due to the fact that he just woke up and they've dried out.

The angel chuckles. "What was that, dear?"

There's a huff from the flustered, definitely not crying demon on his chest. "I don't deserve you," he mutters finally, his voice small and quiet in the stillness of the room. He can't see it from where he's positioned but Aziraphale looks absolutely stricken.

"Oh Crowley," Aziraphale murmurs softly, slipping his hand beneath Crowley's chin and lifting the demon's head so he's looking up at him. "There is no one in the world more deserving, my dear. I choose you, today, tomorrow, always, until the last second of time itself. I love you with every fiber of my being, with every thought I've ever had and every word I've ever spoken. I can't imagine a life without you in it and, quite frankly, I don't want to. You mean everything to me, Crowley, please don't ever doubt that."

There's a soft noise, somewhere between a cough and a huff (and definitely not a sob) and Crowley sinks down and buries his face in Aziraphale's chest again. "I thought I was going to lose you," he confesses quietly, fingertips tangling in the fabric of the angel's shirt. "When I saw Hastur standing over you I thought…" he can't even bring himself to finish the sentence; the memory is still too fresh, too vivid, and he worries if he says it out loud it will somehow happen all over again.

Aziraphale's fingers drag a long, slow line down his back. "I'm not going anywhere, dearest," he assures him with such conviction that it instantly eases the knot of apprehension in Crowley's chest. "The armies of Heaven and Hell could march against us and I would still be at your side. There's not a place in the great, wide universe I would rather be."

The conversation dwindles there and warm, comfortable silence fills the room between them. It the companionable silence of lovers, tender, safe, enveloping; for a while, nothing else exists but them and it's not such a bad thing.

"I suppose I should return to the bookshop eventually," Aziraphale muses quietly, speaking more to himself than anything. He developed the habit of muttering to himself in the fifteenth century and never quite broke out of it. "Hastur made a terrible mess of things."

Crowley suppresses a growl at the former demon's name. "Or we could stay here, like this," he counters, pressing his face against the angel's chest again in silent protest of him getting up and leaving the safety and warmth of the bed.

Aziraphale hums in response. "You make a compelling argument."

"One of my better qualities," Crowley retorts, silently pleased with himself for winning this round. The truth is he doesn't want Aziraphale out of his sight anytime soon, the thought alone is enough to make his stomach clench. He had come way, way too close to losing Aziraphale forever and the thought of the angel traipsing off somewhere on his own, without Crowley there to make sure he was safe, well, it didn't sit well at all.

Not only that, he doesn't think Aziraphale is ready to face the true devastation of the bookshop. He doesn't think he's ready to see the broken shelves, the shattered glass, the blood stains splattered across the hardwood and the plush area rugs laid out around the shop. The bookshop had been Aziraphale's pride and joy for years and Hastur had all but destroyed it. True, it had already been destroyed by the fire but that was different; Adam reversed everything and the bookshop came back just as good, if not better, as before.

This time, however, the damage was much more personal, much more intimate. Hastur had come into the bookshop, a place Aziraphale loved and felt safe, and he had turned that safe place into a nightmare. Crowley doesn't want Aziraphale to go back to the bookshop yet because he's afraid that seeing it, reliving the memories of the attack, it's going to hurt him more than anything Hastur could have done.

"I'll go with you when you decide to go back," he tells him, tightening his hold around the angel in his arms. "I'll help you clean everything up."

"Thank you," Aziraphale tells him and he can practically hear the smile in his voice. It's enough to make him squirm and slither against his chest. He figures one day he'll get used to the overwhelming warmth and love the angel gives off when he's around but today is not that day.

"I don't suppose it would hurt to stay here, like this, for a little while longer," the angel continues, perfectly content to stay in bed with the love of his life wrapped in his arms until the sun burned itself out.

"My thoughts exactly," Crowley mutters against him, closing his eyes as Aziraphale's fingers card through his hair again. "Besides," he continues, repositioning his head so it's easier to speak. "I still owe you dinner."

This earns him an endearing chuckle. "Yes, I suppose you do."

Crowley beams silently but also makes the conscious decision to miracle everything into existence rather than going to the store again. He hadn't left the best impression the last time he went and, again, he doesn't really want to let Aziraphale out of his sight.

"Dinner it is," he agrees, catching the angel's hand as it sweeps through his hair and pressing a soft kiss to the inside of his wrist. "We might even toss in a movie while we're at it."

Another soft laugh. "And what movie might that be?"

"_Dirty Dancing_, it's a classic."

"Hm, sounds scandalous."

"Oh, it is," he says, lifting himself up just enough to press a warm, gentle kiss to the angel's lips. Every worry, every concern he's ever had, it melts away in that instant. If the world were to end right then, fire and flame and ferocity, he thinks that would be just fine. As long as he had Aziraphale, nothing else in the world mattered. "It's good, I promise."

Aziraphale kisses back, soft and light, and gives him a smile reserved for no one else. "If you loved it I'm sure I will too."

He leans down and kisses him again and it's slow, intimate, and breathtaking. There are thousands of words shared in a long seconds of silence, sonnets and ballads and love letters never sent. It's an outline of the greatest love story never told and only recently coming to light. They're together, they're safe, they're alive and nothing else in the world matters.

Aziraphale kisses him and it feels like coming home.

* * *

**Thanks so much for reading guys! :D**


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